Emotional Punching Bag
Teach me how to throw the right punches and aim for the center always.
I step outside with my headphones on and my feet move at a quick pace. A man approaches me with a lanky, yearling stride. He’s six foot plus and nothing but endless legs and body. There’s a light beard on his face and he grins at me. His cheeks cause dimples at the corners of his mouth.
My face breaks into a smile as I slide the headphones down to my neck like a necklace.
“Hey Isle, I was just thinking about you,” I say.
“Yeah, I broke my phone again. I’m talking to my brother right now but you know I’ll catch you walking around,” he replies.
He’s one of the many people I’ve met randomly this year, by a serendipitous nature. I was moving around my apartment complex, hip hop music serenading me in my ears. My feet flew into a dance move where I twisted in the air and landed. I slid down to the ground and popped back up.
Our eyes lock just then, his brown eyes meeting with my color changing hazel.
“I saw you, look at you acting like I didn’t,” he called out to me.
I did what I normally wouldn’t, I removed my headphones and approached him. We talked about traveling, our similar views on religion, and so many awesome topics. He was worldly, and fooled me into believing he was thirty when really he was only twenty three.
My feet keep moving and I bop my head to my beats. We stumble across each other again. I notice his headphones are out of his ears and we stop across from each other.
“You want to come up? I gotta roll something out.”
“Really? You know what kind of trouble I’ve been lately.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep to myself,” he replies.
I tilt my head to the side and think about it. For some reason I end up nodding my head and we make the trek up three flights of stairs. He takes two steps at a time and kids that he can do that because of his long legs. I take two at a time myself and still wind up panting as we get up to the top. He unlocks the door and I step inside.
The room is sparsely decorated with a gigantic red couch in the center of the living space. He takes me around and gives me an impromptu tour. We end up in a room with a punching bag and I grin excitedly.
“I remember you telling me you box. That is so fucking cool, I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.”
“Here, watch me, you want to hit when the bag is moving away from you,” he says.
His gigantic hands push the bag away and he follows it. He bops it lightly away from him as the bag bobs back and forth. He then lets loose a few tightly wound up punches at the center of the bag.
“See, you gotta have your stance just right. In case your opponent comes at you.”
He spaces his legs in a stacked position. I watch as he punches at it with fierce, sharp jabs. I imagined when he told me about his boxing that he’d be this kind of fighter. He’s spry, quick on his feet with effective, fast punches thrown at the bag.
He motions for me to give it a try. My feet move into the staggered position and I try to jab at it. It’s a pathetic attempt, my fist hardly moves the bag. I try again and I see him shaking his head.
“Nah, you gotta keep your wrist straight in a line. If you don’t keep it straight you’ll end up hurting yourself. Like this,” he puts his hands on me.
I’m acutely aware this is the first time we’ve ever touched since meeting each other. He stands behind me and comes in close. His taller body moves against me and he repositions my hands. He smells earthy, herbaceous and his lean stomach presses into my back. I try not to hold my breath in surprise.
I aim again and he gestures for me to put my hands in front of me.
“Here, this is your first time boxing so you need gloves. Put your hands out and l’ll put them on.”
I extend out my dainty wrists compared to his bear claw hands. Isle delicately puts on the gloves and he’s careful with tightening them. When he’s finished I hit the one gloved hand into the palm of the other. They feel like huge, fluffy oven mittens on my hands. The gloves force my fingers into a curled position and I turn toward the punching bag.
I hit the bag several times and he corrects
me. He approaches me again and we’re incredibly close again. It feels like tightly wound up sinew as his incredibly lean body embraces mine from behind. He’s closer to me this time than last.
Isle handles me in this self assured, confident way that makes me doubt his age yet again. There aren’t many men that can touch me with his confidence without having some hesitation. I’m incredibly intimidating and state to most men I’ll take them down if they try anything. This generally gets them to be cautious around me which I like. I’m not afraid to smack a guy in his chest with a sharp slap if they keep pushing shit with me after I’ve verbally warned them.
I’ve met few, if any his age that have such an old soul feel trapped within a younger body. He repositions my hands and then steps back to watch me again.
There’s a rhythm I find where I’m hitting and the punching bag flies away from my strong, aggressive jabs. He straps thinner gloves on himself and points to a piece of paper taped on the wall. His finger finds the first exercise on the list.
“Now that you have the basics you can do both fists, close, dirty boxing with elbow jabs. That’s not my style, I’ll just knock someone down right in front of me.”
“But, it’s not a bad thing for me to learn. If a guy tries something with me he’ll be closer. So, I need to defend myself closer.”
“You could say that, I still wouldn’t recommend dirty boxing, just doesn’t sit well with me. I almost went to the Olympics for the islands but just missed it because of this guy who had power but no flare.”
I smile at him learning this information about him. His life completely and absolutely fascinates me. He’s from a secluded area, yet he has traveled the world. The places he’s been to has opened his world to different views and he’s witnessed every religion. We both agree that religions are all saying that same thing, treat people with kindness and don’t be a dick. He’s incredibly intelligent but I feel like most people discredit him.
Isle’s told me that my intuition is true and people underestimate him. He hates school, yet he’s taught himself so many things like how to create incredible things with his hands. I know one of his dreams is to be in architecture.
I hit the punching bag with my fist and slide to my elbow to hit the bag. It feels good to do this move, and I seem to do it right from the start since he doesn’t correct me.
“I get not wanting to do the dirty boxing. I know how to wrestle and take someone down quickly because my brother and I fought. Then you use your elbow against their throat until they submit. Being a woman I gotta be prepared for people to come at me and fight dirty if I need to.”
He smiles at me and his eyes crinkle at the corners with the action. It’s one of those full mouthed grins and I keep up with my jabs.
“Makes sense, I get it. I’m not a wrestler, just was never taught that way. If me and my brothers had disagreements we fought in the background boxing.”
There’s an underlying current of sexual tension that appears underneath the surface. I feel excited hitting the bag and it appeals to my aggressive side. There were many times being a child, teenager and young adult that I wanted a punching bag. My anger would bundle up within my body, looking to explode out like the most volatile reaction created.
I know this is something he and I have in common. He is a deeply emotive being that controls it just so, until it can’t be anymore. My breathing comes out in quick pants and there’s a moment where we stare at each other with a knowing look.
I’m not sure if he’ll keep his promise of keeping to himself. And I’m curious why it feels so distinctly good to have him near me. I just know we’re going to get into trouble together, and I don’t think this is a bad thing.
